The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  Mayer fell silent.

  “Why? What do you get out of it?”

  “The Depression caused chaos,” said Mayer, defending himself. “Inflation, mass hysteria over salaries and costs. Budgets skyrocketing. Why do you think half the studios were collapsing? Now there’s finally stability. Productions completing on time, and on budget.”

  “So you’re actually saving money? All those taxable dollars you would have paid the union if there had been legitimate wage increases.”

  Mayer shrugged.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? The syndicate is doing you a favor. I knew you were capable of a lot, Louis, but I never thought you’d get into bed with gangsters.”

  He wiped at his forehead again. Then he whispered, “How dare you, Craine? After everything I’ve done for you.”

  “You deny it?”

  “Do you know how many people go to the pictures each week in America? Eighty million. But it’s not the pictures they go see, it’s the stars. Don’t you see how valuable they are? Losing one Stewart, one Rooney, one Spencer Tracy could cripple us. And the problems we’ve had, the close encounters. You don’t need me to tell you the number of times I’ve almost lost one of them on some pathetic rape charge. And do you know how much we spend on abortionists each year, how much is wasted on lawyers, on payoffs? Look at all the things other studios have gone through with their leads. What the club proposed, it seemed reasonable. Why not keep them entertained? I don’t judge my stars, Craine. So what if I helped give them what they want? I was protecting my employees from their own foolishness.”

  Looking at him then, Craine realized Mayer was nothing but a pious servant to a system he had helped create. Craine’s iconoclasm would never be allowed. There was absolutely nothing in this world Mayer wouldn’t do to protect his stars.

  “If we bring Carell in on this, you’ll agree to testify in court?”

  Mayer shook his head. “No.”

  “You’ll be subpoenaed—”

  “It won’t hold, and you know it. Not with who I know. I don’t need that level of publicity and I won’t stand for it. No, as far as M.G.M. is concerned, Peterson alone had ties to the Lilac Club. All of this was his doing. No one else from the studio lot will be mentioned by name, I’ll make sure of it.”

  Beyond the living room he heard the sound of a door close. It came from one of the bedrooms further down the hall. Mayer heard it too. His eyes flicked toward the door for a split second, then back to Craine.

  Both men stiffened as a set of footsteps approached.

  The heavyweight figure of Whitey Hendry stepped through the doorway. In his hand was a thick five-by-seven envelope. Hendry looked at Craine suspiciously before turning back to Mayer. “I found the safe in the bedroom. There was some cash inside, a few watches and some jewelry. I also found this.”

  Mayer took the envelope from Hendry’s outstretched hand and used a letter knife to cut across the seal. He bit his lip when he saw what was inside.

  “I’ve called studio security,” Hendry mumbled. “They’re on their way.”

  “Give me the envelope,” said Craine, knowing that it contained the missing photographs. He saw Peterson in the bed with Florence Lloyd. He saw Campbell and Rochelle trying to sell the pictures. He saw Peterson picking up the phone and calling New York.

  “What good do you hope will come of this, Craine?”

  “Show me the pictures.” Craine changed his tone of voice. He wasn’t asking. “Give them to me.”

  Mayer handed Craine the envelope. “How noble you’ll be in your pyrrhic victory. Do you think you won’t lose everything when this all gets out? Your career will be over. Think of Michael. He’ll have nothing. Do you think this is what Celia would have wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  Craine’s hand dipped inside the manila paper. His palms slid over the gummed seal and he felt the tips of his fingers clinging to the glossy prints. For a long second, he didn’t dare take them out.

  Chapter 41

  News of O’Neill’s death raged through the police department like wildfire. When word got out that one of the shooters was caught alive and had been taken to the Good Samaritan Hospital, two-thirds of Central’s troopers came down to show their support. Day-shift detectives gathered in the waiting room and ignored the opportunity of relief when the night rotation came in at 10 P.M. Ranking officers filed in shortly after, walking stiffly with their starched shirts and polished brass.

  Chief Davidson seemed relieved that the press hadn’t arrived, and after asking Simms for an update, explained to him very clearly that on no account were any of his men to leak any details to the papers. So far, without reason or motive for the crime, chain of command still had a series of options. There could be any number of reasons for O’Neill’s death. Perhaps he shot himself by accident, cleaning his service weapon. Maybe he was suicidal. Then again, he might come from a particularly troubled neighborhood, where violent robberies were commonplace. With so many possibilities, there was no need to go charging off into the night. It was very important that Simms didn’t jeopardize the department’s reputation with wild accusations that couldn’t be substantiated. To put it simply, without unquestionable evidence, the rank and file were not prepared to support a city pogrom of the criminal underworld.

  Simms’ own officers were another matter. They had rallied around their Captain, and pledged their commitment to bring O’Neill’s killers to justice. There were a small number of cardinal sins that were unforgivable in any policeman’s eyes, and the murder of one of their own broke their first commandment. Now, like a bereaved family, the Detective Bureau sought vengeance against O’Neill’s killers.

  Simms felt the weight of the responsibility on his own shoulders. It was his fault. O’Neill and Craine had come to him and he had turned them away. Simms had known O’Neill’s father, had served under him briefly in San Francisco before transferring to Los Angeles. He remembered him as an honest police Major, a bear-like figure, well respected but fearsome at times. What would he have said to Simms if he were alive now? Could he forgive the man who had cast his only son away?

  Simms lit a cigarette on the steps outside the hospital and took long, satisfying drags as he mulled over his next move. Where was Craine when he needed him?

  A black Pontiac drew up outside the emergency exit. The driver’s door opened and a man strode purposefully toward him.

  “Captain Simms?” he asked, taking off his hat.

  The stranger had dark red hair with a trim ginger beard, his stubble high up his cheekbones. Along one cheek, the stubble stopped short of his jaw where a long pink scar crept up toward his temples.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to you about Jonathan Craine.”

  Simms frowned. “Who are you?”

  The stranger reached into his jacket as if drawing a gun. For a moment Simms’ heart stopped. He wasn’t carrying his service pistol.

  The man pulled out a metal badge. “My name is Emmett Redhill.”

  Chapter 42

  Not long after eleven o’clock, Gale lit her first cigarette of the day. A Chesterfield, a rare treat. It had for a long time been her brand of choice, but Jonathan had asked her very politely one night if she could smoke something else when he was around. It was a strange request but she didn’t ask him why; it was pretty obvious. She’d tried a few other brands, Morland’s mostly, but they were never quite the same and after busy rehearsals all afternoon she’d felt a few puffs of Chesterfield tobacco were a just reward for a hard day’s work.

  She had spent the past few hours planning out her evening clothes ahead of tonight’s premiere party. It wasn’t her picture, of course, and Gale had declined an invitation to the red carpet event, but she was still expected to attend the after-party. Mayer and Peterson had been adamant.

  She was planning on traveling alone and meeting Louis and Margaret when the movie ended. A car was due to pick her up at eleven o’clock for an eleven-thirty a
rrival. She had considered asking Jonathan to join her tonight, but he seemed preoccupied with Michael and perhaps it was too soon for them to be seen in public together anyway. Then again, maybe she was being unnecessarily secretive about their relationship. It would come out eventually, and if the press hadn’t spotted them together it was only a matter of time before they did.

  She wondered what the papers would make of it. She imagined the headlines: two bereaved spouses find solace in their grief. Not that that was a lie, of course. There had been an initial connection because of shared experience, but now their relationship had gone further than that. She trusted him, completely. She could say in all honesty that she was in love with Jonathan. It was an innocent, childish love that she hadn’t really experienced before. Jonathan was such a very kind man, a gentleman in the traditional sense: a man who opened doors for you, who danced well and spoke politely. Not like the animals she worked with, who treated girls like pieces of meat. But neither was he the dour stand-pat she’d thought when they’d first met. Beneath his reserved exterior was a dry charm, an unexpected warmth and subtle sense of humor. All these years she’d been benighted, completely ignorant of what love really was. Now she was devoted to Jonathan wholeheartedly in a way she thought she never would be. She was, for the first time she could remember, content.

  Through the window, she saw a car pull into the driveway and park underneath the outside lights. She didn’t recognize it at first but then Jonathan stepped out and began walking purposefully toward the house. In his right hand he carried what looked to be a white piece of paper.

  She opened the window and shouted down. “The door is unlocked. Come right upstairs.”

  She heard the door click and then firmly shut.

  Gale looked at herself in the mirror and fixed her hair. Taking one last final drag, she stubbed out her cigarette and dabbed perfume over her neck to help cover the smell. As she sipped at a glass of water, she could hear his footsteps reach the top of the stairs then the sound of the bedroom door opening.

  “Jonathan, why didn’t you call to tell me you were coming, I would have ordered us a late supper.”

  She turned away from the mirror and went to kiss him. She stopped. Something was wrong.

  Jonathan’s forehead was sheened with sweat. He was staring at her intently, his cheekbones sharp and defined, his eyes hidden in purple recesses either side of his nose. His entire face looked as if it had surrendered, collapsed from the strain of exhaustion.

  “Jonathan, you look awful. What’s wrong?”

  Jonathan remained standing in the doorway, then, without taking his eyes off her, lifted his hand from his side and dropped a thin pile of photographs to the floor. The prints slid over one another, a trail of exposures Gale had prayed no one would ever see. She took one look at the pictures and felt her stomach drop.

  The first of the black-and-white prints showed Gale undressing, a half-naked girl watching on from the bed. Then Gale moved out of frame. The next photo showed Gale moving onto the bed beside her. Three pictures later, Gale was taking off the girl’s underwear, kissing her neck, bearing down on her. In the last photograph, the girl lay on her back as Gale pushed her tongue inside her.

  “Oh my God,” was all she could muster. She could feel her throat tightening and her eyes welling. Ashamed, she clasped a hand over her face.

  Jonathan stared at her. It was a cold look, a penetrating look that chilled her to the core. He spoke with a hatred in his voice. “Are you going to say anything?”

  Stunned, Gale sat back on the bed. Her voice broke. “What is there to say?”

  “When?” he said briskly. “When was this?”

  She looked desperately at Jonathan, then at the pictures on the floor. She stared at the gray shades of naked flesh that made her sick with shame. She had pushed that night into the recesses of her memory.

  “March. Maybe later.”

  Jonathan’s usual calm was gone. He could barely control his anger. “How long were you with her?”

  “Only the once.”

  He had drawn closer, and she could see his eyes film over. “Someone made you?”

  Gale said nothing, then shook her head. Tears came. They ran down her cheeks and into her mouth. “Herbert and I were separated. I was lonely,” she said through salted sobs.

  Gale thought of the furtive visit to that girl’s house after they had met at the Lilac Club. It had seemed nothing then. She and Herbert were living apart. Left alone for weeks on end, she became lonely. She’d drunk too much one night and gone to bed with a woman. Felicity had approached her at the Lilac Club, told her she liked women and thought Gale was attractive. Gale was hesitant but otherwise flattered, a part of her desperate for some kind of physical connection with someone else. So when Felicity invited Gale to her house, she said yes before she could really think about it. Gale didn’t feel dirty sleeping with another woman; she’d always been curious as to what it would feel like. Besides, her marriage was such a fraud. Could this really be considered infidelity? She knew so many men who carried on blatant affairs right in front of their wives’ eyes. Why were they beyond reproach and not she? Her gaze locked on the photos—like almost everyone she’d ever met, Jonathan had confused her with her celluloid double. She was human. She made mistakes.

  Gale wiped at her eyes and spoke through choked tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? Do you know how many people are dead because of you?”

  Gale looked away, visibly confused. “What are you talking about? Who? Which people?”

  He pointed at the pictures, a finger jabbing at the naked figure of Felicity. “Don’t play dumb with me. You know Florence Lloyd was shot in her house.”

  “What?” Gale picked up one of the photographs. “She told me her name was Felicity.”

  “Her real name was Florence Lloyd. She died the same night your husband killed himself.”

  When Craine told her it knocked something out of Gale. “She’s dead? Why? I had no idea.”

  “It was in the papers.”

  “I don’t read the papers! And I never even knew her real name. I figured she was being blackmailed, like me.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”

  Gale shrank away from him. “I’m not lying.”

  “Lloyd, Campbell, Rochelle . . . Patrick O’Neill—they’re all dead because of these pictures.”

  “O’Neill? The detective? I don’t . . . I don’t understand—”

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Look at you, you’re acting all innocent when you know full well your own husband hanged himself because of these.”

  She was still on the bed, but Gale’s arms were up and thrashing out. “I know! Of course I know! He was my husband. Do you know what it is to feel guilty? To always feel guilty?” Her shame receded and she began to feel angry. Angry at Peterson; angry at Mayer and Jonathan; angry at men and the world they lived in that forced her into this position. “Yes, what am I saying?” she said, turning back to him, “Of course you do—Celia.”

  “Don’t even mention her. Don’t poison her name.”

  “You’re using me to make yourself feel better. Dragging up my past doesn’t vindicate you of yours. You knew Celia killed herself. Everyone knew. You’ve been denying it to yourself but you covered it up for M.G.M., didn’t you?”

  “I said don’t mention her name.” Craine was shouting now. He grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to the floor.

  There was a silence, during which Gale lay helplessly on the carpet. Craine rubbed his eyes with the balls of his fists. He sat on the edge of the bed in the dimple Gale’s slight body had left in the sheets.

  “Did you love her?”

  Gale relapsed into fits of tears. “No.”

  “And me?”

  Gale looked up at Craine and cried: “Yes, I loved you. I love you now.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Gale shook her head, struggling to explain: “I wa
s at the Lilac Club . . . Herbert wasn’t there—he’d left early with a migraine. I met Felicity . . . or Florence, whatever her real name was. We talked, we went home together. To where she lived. That was it. It was the one time.”

  “Did you know she was a prostitute?”

  Gale frowned, confused. “No . . . it wasn’t like that. There was no—I didn’t pay her.”

  “And you never met James Campbell?”

  “Who is Campbell? I’ve never even seen him. I have no idea who he is. You keep mentioning his name but as far as I know he’s the man who died in the car crash at Loew House. The one who killed Rochelle over some girl.”

  “Campbell was the photographer. The girl was Florence Lloyd. This girl. They were in it together.”

  Gale shook her head from side to side, struggling to believe it. “I had no idea. I was always worried I’d bump into her again. When I found out about the pictures I figured they asked her for money too. I even thought about going to her house.”

  “And you believed that, even after Loew House?”

  “I told you, when Rochelle died I thought it was as the papers said it was.”

  “You must have wondered whether it was connected to Herbert.”

  “Yes, I wondered. But I didn’t actually think it was. It wasn’t my business to get involved.” Her voice was coarse from crying. “You have to believe me, Jonathan.”

  Craine wiped the sweat from his face. “Why didn’t you tell me about Florence? About the pictures.”

  She sat upright against the base of the bed and looked at Craine through glazed eyes. “I couldn’t,” she said softly. “I wanted to. I was scared. I didn’t want you to leave me. I wanted what we have. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You could have told me about her. About the real reason Herbert killed himself.”

  Gale bit her lip and shook her head. “No, Jonathan,” she said through sobs. “No, I couldn’t.”

  Craine took a seat next to her on the floor, each of them unable to look at the other.